


Eat Your Heart Out, Christina Tosi

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [46]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas Cookies, F/M, Food Sex, Sex Pollen, Wet & Messy, sex with food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5502314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Clara wants for Christmas is a quiet, cozy night in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eat Your Heart Out, Christina Tosi

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who requested: Twelve and Clara are baking cookies and while she's out of the room for a few minutes the Doctor decides to put his dick in the cookie dough and fuck it and Clara catches him and 'licks him clean'

He’d offered her Christmas in the year 3000, where all the lights were sentient creatures getting a good day’s pay. Or Christmas in the past - the 1950s? 1850s? The very first Christmas? The pagan celebrations that got scooped up into Christian ritual?

And she’d hesitated, because this was the part where she asked for something impossible - like ‘can we go inside _The Muppet Christmas Carol_? I mean hang out with Muppets as they are in the movie, not puppets with hands wedged up their arses?’ - and then he’d somehow magically deliver. That was her line. But she was tired, and homesick for some place not quite the home she’d grown up in, and she had that feeling again that maybe, just maybe, just for a little bit, she’d like to slow down.  

He’d gestured at the TARDIS console, like look at all these possibilities that you’re turning down, when did you get so jaded? And then he’d said: Your dad’s, then. Family dinner. We can pick up a turkey from somewhere, or crackers, or biscuits, or - whatever. I’ll wear clothes, even.

(They don’t talk much about their time together before he was the him he was now, so the fact that he was bringing it up was somewhat notable. He doesn’t like bringing his old selves up, doesn’t like dwelling on all the things he’d done. It was an offering, a weird self-deprecating gesture.)

She’d shaken her head. No, no. Not that. They think I’m on holiday in Bermuda. And besides -

He’d stared at her. She’d stared back. Held his gaze, more boldly than she felt, and she’d taken a leap of faith.

Besides. You’re my family, now.

 

The TARDIS creaks and groans and coughs up half a Victorian house. A drawing room with a crackling fire, a decorated tree, a staircase (with two mismatched stockings hung from the railing, stuffed with God knows what) leading up to what she assumes is a bedroom. Modern appliances in the kitchen, though, starkly out of place but undeniably welcome.

“Are you going to try to make a souffle again?” He’s slouched down on a chair, tipped back precariously, legs propped against the table.

“Nah. Takes too much time. Where did these eggs come from, anyway? You got chickens somewhere?” She assembles things that she vaguely recalls might be involved in baking biscuits from scratch, piling them on the table. Three loose eggs wobbling between the bag of flour and the butter.

“Potentially,” he says. “I haven’t checked in a while.”

According to the slightly dodgy _Ancient Earth Treats: A Journey Through Culinary History_ recipe, they can just about make gingerbread, give or take some cloves. Some candy to decorate with, even. And what’s more Christmassy than gingerbread men.

He watches her intently as she cracks the dubious eggs and creams the butter and the sugar and does that thing, the bit-lip concentration thing, that she knows makes him go a little weak. And it’s nice, just the process of it, the following instructions. The preset path. Now add the flour mixture gradually.

Something about the smell of molasses and spice, it just settles her down. Makes her happy in a very simple, only slightly-understood way. It just is. Christmas Eve, baking and relaxing into the time-honored tradition. The small-motor whine of the mixer. He’s behind her, now, curving his body around her, his hand on hers where it rests on the side of the mixer, to keep it from shaking its way off the counter.

Maybe not tradition. Maybe he’s half-hard behind her and she’s struggling to remember what she’s doing. Incorporate the rest of the flour mixture. Don’t, don’t. Don’t do _that_.

He’s leaning down, kissing her neck. And, between agonizingly slow, grinding hip-thrusts, he says: 'You’re planning on decorating the. Uh. Gingerbread - men.“

"Yeah,” she gasps out. “With the. They look like Smarties?”

“Ah. Where’d you get those?” He flicks the mixer off and then runs his hand up under her jumper, fumbling through layers until he finds skin, skinny fingers cool and scrabbling up her belly.

“Cupboard.” Single-word responses, now, because she can feel it - something isn’t right, something is wrong. Sure, things have probably gone pear-shaped and are about to get much worse. But all she can think about is his cock hard against her, his hands on her, his breath on her skin.

“Okay. Okay. I think there’s a problem. I’m gonna step back, alright? I’m gonna stop and you’re gonna stop and we’ll - take care of the, the - alien things. The bad things.”

“Bad things,” she repeats mindlessly, turning around to face him. She pulls him down into a rough, sloppy kiss. Half of her brain is screaming at her that something is _wrong_. Half is just enjoying this. And why shouldn’t she?

He probably feels the same, going by how he does not leave, instead just pushes her skirt up and parts her legs while saying “Any minute now, gonna not be doing this. Any minute.”

She’s the one who finally breaks free, the voice in her head just a bit stronger than the too-pleasant ache in her cunt. She holds him back, hands on his chest. He makes that face, the one he always makes when she’s pushing him around.

“Something’s wrong,” she says. She really just wants to kiss him, just wants to break him down and ride him and -

“Yeah,” he replies, looking very much like he’s willing to ignore that fact. “Those aren’t Smarties. You should go, now. Go go _go_.”

He shoos her, or paws at her, or both. She stumbles out of the kitchen and slams the door shut and takes a series of deep breaths. In and out and in and out and _think_ , Oswald. With your brain.

“Alien aphrodisiacs, then?” she asks, face pressed to the door.

“I think,” comes the plaintive reply, muffled through the reproduced Authentic Earth Wood ca 1860.

“So what do we do?”

“We, ah. Oh. We get rid of them. If this is what it’s like when they’re just. Just, uh. Exposed to air. If anyone actually ingests these. It’d be - you know.”

“Why do you have aphrodisiac candies, anyway? Nevermind, don’t answer that.” She straightens her jumper and pulls her panties all the way back up and steels herself. Think unsexy thoughts. Margaret Thatcher. Global warming. Her inevitable mortality. Anything, anything but fucking, or things adjunct to fucking.

She pulls herself together. She opens the door.

And he’s standing there, blushing red as a tomato, the mixing bowl held to his crotch. “Sorry,” he says, wriggling a little. “It just. Seemed like a good - I don’t know what’s happening.”

“You’re fucking the gingerbread,” she says curtly. “Merry Christmas and a happy new year. Auld Lang’s - stop that.” She slaps his hands off the bowl, and then squelches the bowl off him, and all she’d wanted was a nice quiet night in.

And this is sexy again, somehow, him crumpling against the wall and curling around himself, arms held very carefully away from his erection. The bowl of ruined dough in her hands. She wants to smear it all over him, and then lick it off, and then -

“Not doing this,” she chants. “Not fucking you right now. Not doing-”

She grabs the candies or fuck-drugs or whatever off the table, sweeps them into a sheet pan and holds the pan away from herself, crabwalking to where she hopes there is a garbage shoot. The TARDIS whines and groans and pops open a panel, and she dumps the candies in. Watches them go. Still kind of wants to cover the Doctor in raw gingerbread dough and then ice him and bake him and, and, and -

She inhales slowly. Exhales slowly. Watches him out of the corner of her eye, sees him squirming and sticky, tries to figure where the space drugs end and her regular libido begins.

“Sorry,” he says, as he rolls around in a pile of spilled all-purpose flour. “Not sure why I even have aphrodisiacs on board. Wasn’t me. Or not me-me, at least.” He points at his face, wiggles his finger around. Not this face, not this him. Somebody else who presumably he thinks is far dumber and much less classy than he is now.

“Things happen. We all mistakes.” She watches him awkwardly half-hump the floor. “Since we’re here, though, and that happened, and it can’t get any worse. You want some help with that?”

He nods fervently. She wipes a stray bit of flour from her face, and goes to him.

“I’ll bake _your_ biscuit, yeah,” she says, before she realizes what it is coming out of her mouth.

He groans and rolls towards her, pulls her down with him.

Would’ve been a good batch of gingerbread, she thinks as she scrapes it off his dick very carefully with her teeth. Shame it never made it to the oven. But hey, licking the bowl is always the best part.


End file.
